Sine Die
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: You can't control who you kill. And you can never run far enough. A murderous game of Bishop cat-and-mouse, set in AU.
1. Sine In

I've come to the conclusion that I simply _must_ have an AU going at all times. Y'know, like a radio or something going in the background while you're doing something? Anyways, the new season of Fringe starts up in September sometime, and AU's are pretty safe along the lines of preserving a story line that I have no right to tamper with. The wonderful thing about Fringe is that just when you think you know something, you find yourself completely incorrect- infuriating yet invigorating. But enough, on to the AU!

_*If the world were run by communism, we'd all own Fringe. But, via crippling diversity in government, we do not, and thusly I must put a disclaimer here._

Chpt. One: _(Sine In)_

_Monarch, Washington._

_It's often foggy, there._

The savage crash of the chill surf against the jagged grey cliffs would have muted any cries from the shallow, white beach nearby, and even if there had been a break in the waves, her earphones would see to it that the world was completely blocked from her consciousness. Olivia liked to run here, for this reason in itself, and preferred her run in the early morning, before anyone showed up to remind her that humans still existed. Her sheer, purposely careless lack of concern for potential distractions had made it nearly a miracle for her to stumble across the body in the first place.

She spotted it as she vaulted a large piece of driftwood, her white sneakers thudding to a halt in the sand, flecks of sand flicking away from each of her footfalls. Her breathing heavy, Olivia pulled her headphones from her ears, tucking them into the sweaty collar of her shirt, and squinted.

For a few moments, she thought it may have been someone sleeping on the beach, until she got closer and realized just how strange it was. The corpse appeared to be a man in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a black suit. As Olivia neared, she took note of the obvious; the cause of death had been a bullet to the brain, dead center between his eyes. The bruises at the sides of his mouth and banding his wrists lead her to conclude that he had been killed execution-style.

The regular suspicions were raised, as she struck a stray lock of blonde hair from her eyes. Mob, crooked politician, embezzling businessman. But the rough effect of stubble about his chin made the fine suit look like a costume, rather than the everyday attire.

Olivia sighed. She could never just run in _peace_. No, there had to be a body sprawled out here, of all places. She was shaking her head and muttering about her luck as she drew out her cell phone from her pocket, beginning to dial.

The phone hit the sand as something touched her ankle, and she jumped away, startled. It was the corpse, staring up at her, seeming to have a hard time with the film of blood over his left eye. "What the hell?!" Olivia exclaimed.

"Sorry," he answered roughly, letting his arm drop back onto the sand. He shifted his weight onto his shoulder, turning over with a soft grunt of effort.

Olivia looked back and fourth along the beach, completely bewildered, "Who are you?! Is this some kind of joke?!" she demanded at last, taking another step back from him.

The stranger was sitting back on his ankles, yanking the knot from his tie and pulling it free of his collar, "Nope," he answered. He raised a hand to touch the leaking wound in his head, and Olivia looked sick as he poked the tip of his finger inside the hole, "…interesting," he concluded at last.

"Who are you?" Olivia stammered, "_What_ are you?! Answer me!" her hand went for her gun, missing from her hip as she was out of uniform.

"That's the big question, isn't it?" the man laughed, and the laughter quickly became coughing. He cleared his throat after a bit, and spat something dark to the side, "you dropped your phone."

"You need medical attention," Olivia decided at last, stooping to retrieve her phone and dust the sand away, "I'll call an ambulance… Jesus, I thought you were dead…"

"Is this as big as it feels?" the stranger asked, frowning as he pointed to the hole in his forehead, "feels like a god damn cannon ball, rolling around in there."

"I'd say a twelve gauge solid slug," Olivia diagnosed immediately.

He nodded slowly, as if to feel the hunk of lead in his skull, "Yeah, I guess that would do it," he looked back up at her, "you could probably call that ambulance, now." he lay back on the sand, loosing even more color from his face, "I could use a good laugh."

"What do you mean?" Olivia asked, "Hey, you're not going to pass out on me, are you? Hey!"

But the stranger had stopped breathing. Olivia swallowed, and crouched down to gently press two fingers against his pulse on his neck. Immediately he snapped awake, gripping her by the wrist and making her jump, "Would you quit _touching _me?" he demanded.

"Sorry," Olivia stammered, gaping. His fingers against her skin were icy, and he was shivering, "listen, you're going into shock. I don't think we have time to wait for an ambulance. My car is up the cliff- do you think you can walk?"

"Yeah. I guess," the stranger replied, blinking up at her. His half-red stare was unnerving, and Olivia at last tore her eyes from his face, looking back the way she came. There was no one in sight. What chance had there been, for this man to survive with a bullet in his head in such a desolate place? It was very apparent that he was supposed to be dead. She would later come to question why she hadn't just left him there.

She helped him up, and they ambled off down the beach.

xXx

_Whelps Ridge, Washington. Approx. 17 kilometers south-east of the US/Canadian border, only a few hundred miles from Monarch._

_And dear god, is it boring._

"Do your hotel rooms have closets?"

Astrid looked up from her magazine, blinking at the form across the counter. Slowly, shock formed her face at what she saw, "Oh my god," she exclaimed before she could stop herself, "what happened to your face?"

He may have been frowning, or it may have simply been a grimace of pain, his split lip made it nearly impossible to tell. The man was beat to hell, hunched slightly and cradling his side. In a matter of seconds, his demeanor had been memorized; A dirty, torn, once white lab coat, the left lens of his thick-framed glasses shattered, his graying, curly hair caked with blood and dust. His eyes were blue… but one was nearly swollen shut, a cut spanning his eyelid to cleave his eyebrow, "I ask again," he said, his tone slightly annoyed and very tired, "do your hotel rooms have closets?"

"Um, yeah," Astrid replied, sitting up and doffing her magazine onto the counter, "why? Are you alright, sir?"

"I would like to rent a room for the night," he said dismissively, flipping the tails of his stained jacket away from his thigh to delve into his pocket, "how much are they running?"

"Oh," Astrid exclaimed, glancing down at the rates list taped behind the counter beside a clipped, laminated newspaper cartoon strip, "they're…" she trailed off as he drew out a banded roll of large bills, pulling a few loose.

He glanced up at her silence, "Yes?" he questioned impatiently.

"…Forty-five dollars for one night," Astrid finished, tearing her eyes away form his method of payment, "internet and local calls are free."

The stranger muttered something about how the economy was going to hell and forked over the bills, and Astrid spun in her chair to the wall of pegboard that sported the room keys, "Something on the second floor, please," he asked.

Astrid felt that the man hardly seemed in the shape to ascend the stairs to the second level of the small complex, but obliged his request none the less, "Your room is thirteen B," she said, passing over the key, and he chuckled darkly, "do you need any assistance with your luggage, sir?"

He was shaking his head and muttering as he shuffled out of the office, the small brass doorbell chiming distantly as he disappeared into the dark, a red spot growing at his elbow.

Despite herself, Astrid got up from her chair to go to the window, pushing the white, plastic blinds apart and peer out into the parking lot, lit dimly with a single, orange streetlamp. The man was pulling open the door of an old, dusty Station Wagon, the color indefinable through the grime. He disappeared into the back seat, apparently looking for something.

Perhaps he was in trouble. On the run? Surely not from the law? What could he have done to break the law? Astrid pushed her questions aside and reached for the phone, dialing the number for the local police station. It toned only twice, before someone picked up.

"Sheriff Francis," came the slightly tired-sounding reply.

"Hey, Charlie," Astrid said, "it's Astrid, up here at Lux Inn. Sorry to call so late."

"Hey, my shift's all night. What seems to be the problem?"

"Well, this guy just checked in," Astrid said, "and… he looks like someone roughed him up pretty bad."

"Oh? Well, what's his name?" Charlie questioned.

Astrid balked, and looked over her shoulder at the untouched ledger next to the cash register, "Damn it, I forgot to get him to sign in. I do that every time. I'll call you back, Charlie." and she hung up the phone.

After watching the stranger gather his things and make his way off to his room, Astrid gathered the roster and a pen and set out from the office. Quietly she climbed the steel grate steps and along the outdoor balcony, counting the rooms off as she passed. She reached 13B and raised her knuckles to knock, and was stilled by his rough call of "Whatever you want, go away!"

"Sir?" Astrid questioned, shifting the heavy book in her arms, "I forgot to have you sign in, sorry."

There was silence as a reply, and Astrid was about to head back to the office when the door chain rattled, and the door opened. The stranger stuck his head out, glaring, "Why didn't you call up?" he snapped.

"I didn't want to make you walk down to the office," Astrid replied sheepishly, extending the book slowly, "you look…" she swallowed, with a quick smile, "…tired."

"I am," he replied gruffly, taking the roster and scribbling a name quickly. He snapped the book shut sharply and thrust it at her, "I trust this will be sufficient until morning?"

"Um, unless you need something else," Astrid replied, still smiling weakly, "Mister…" she peeked into the ledger, "Mister Bishop."

"It's doctor Bishop, thanks," he corrected, "and I will be most comfortable until morning, thank you very much." and he shut the door in her face.

Astrid let out a sigh and tucked the book under her arm, scratching the back of her neck as she headed for the stairs. She was stilled as Dr. Bishop called to her, "Miss!"

She looked over her shoulder, "Huh?"

"What's your name?"

"Astrid," she replied, hoping he wasn't going to call the day manager and complain, "Astrid Farnsworth."

He thought this information over for a few moments, and winced, clutching his head, "Will you do something for me? I'm more than willing to reimburse you for your time…"

Astrid swallowed, blushing violently, "Hey, I'm not-"

"Take this list," Dr. Bishop said, flapping a piece of paper at her, "retrieve its constituents and bring them to me." Astrid took the list from him, looking it over.

"What is all of this?" she said, "Ginger ale? Coffee cake? Frankenberry crunch? Cotton candy?"

"Blue, not pink."

"…_Wool socks?"_

"Can you get them or not?" Dr. Bishop snapped, irritated.

Astrid smiled, "Sure thing, Dr. Bishop. There's a truck stop just down the way, I think they'll probably have most of this. The socks might be a bit of a stretch, though."

Walter watched her a moment, and sighed as he raised his hand to his brow again, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyelids, "Get what you can. Keep the change, and go away." He pushed a wad of bills into her hand and shut the door.

"Dr. Bishop," Astrid said uneasily after she had counted over the money, "there's over a thousand dollars, here!" There was no reply, and she shook her head, heading off, muttering under her breath, "maybe it's jerk tax…"

xXx


	2. No Sine of Life

Chpt. Two: _(No Sine Of Life)_

ONE DAY PRIOR.

"_Peter_!"

The warmth of the skin of his throat under his hands as he squeezed. The trembling feeling of his fluttering pulse. The gloss over his pale eyes as his life began to slip from him, "Peter, please-!"

Peter breathed jaggedly through his barred teeth, hissing a chuckle. His muscles trembled as he forced his fathers' head under the water again. Violently the man thrashed, his struggling growing weaker with each effort he made to rise. Eventually his movements ceased, his grip on his sons' tie slipping away, "Peter…" his eyes rolled back in his head, and he was still.

Peter was staring into his face with complete elation, panting in exhilaration. The chase was over. Walter was dead.

Something collided with the side of Peter's head, sending him reeling into the surf. Struggling to the surface, Peter saw someone standing over him, a rifle in hand, the barrel trained on Peter's forehead, "Desist," the stranger said quietly, "and I will spare you."

Peter looked at the lifeless body of his father behind the man, "Not until he's dead!" Peter spat savagely.

"Then you are not worth sparing," The stranger said softly, his bare brows knitting in concern, "I am very sorry." There was a flash as he pulled the trigger, and a roar as Peter fell back in the water.

xXx

It was raining again when Peter finally regained consciousness. The burning feeling of the bullet penetrating his skull still echoed through his senses, and his vision was nearly unusable as he blinked his eyes open in the dark.

He cursed. The old man had somehow managed to escape (let alone, _survive_) again, and Peter had been landed with a slug in his brain. After so long, why had it turned out like this? Such a failure wouldn't occur again, it wouldn't be tolerated-

Peter attempted to shake his head back and fourth and stilled in his efforts, grimacing with pain. His scalp felt hot and itchy against the clean cotton of the pillow, and he could feel the salt and sand of the sea in the creases of his skin. Slowly he raised his hand, attempting to feel for his wound. His fingers met gauze banding his forehead, and he was then quick to realize where he was and what had happened, after September had pulled the trigger and the world had gone dark.

Peter slowly sat up, rubbing the itchy crust of dried blood from his eyelids. He had been placed on a couch to recuperate- it was a good thing that the woman had been bright enough to realize that she shouldn't confront the authorities about him. A the glow-in-the-dark hands on the mantle clock over the small stone fireplace informed him of the time; 4:17. Ugh. His least favorite hour of the morning. But the woman would still be asleep. He could get her car keys and go, before he had to kill her for what she might have known.

Peter pushed the blankets away from his legs, the shifting causing a soft rush of sand from his clothes onto the wooden floor. His bare feet found the rug, his hands searching in the dark for his shoes and socks. He set to pulling them on, and felt the pressure of his brain around the foreign lead intrusion. He definitely had to get rid of that.

He got to his feet quietly, silently passing around the coffee table. There would be time; he needed a butter knife, a lighter, and some privacy.

He found the articles he was looking for in what he could only assume was the kitchen, and he was shuffling into the bathroom when he came to decide that this would have been quite a nice house in the daylight. Just what exactly did this woman do to earn such a living? Was she married?

Would he have to kill kids, if he wasn't careful?

Peter frowned at his own reflection in the mirror, tearing his eyes from those of his doppelganger as he set to heating up the stainless steel kitchen implement. He pulled the bandaging from his head and something clearish dripped from the bullet hole. Damn. September knew better than to mettle in affairs that weren't his own… what had possessed him to interfere with something he knew he could not stop? Peter would be certain to return the favor when he got the chance.

The knife was glowing a dull red color when he let the flame of the Bick go out. Glaring intently at his reflection, Peter plunged the tool into the hole in his head. A bit of twisting and a splitting headache later, the off-shaped lead slug hit the porcelain with a dull rattle. Peter sat back on the toilet set lid for a few moments to shake off the experience.

"Does it hurt?" Someone asked, and he jumped with surprise. The woman from the beach stood in the doorway, dressed in an over-sized tee shirt and boy shorts. She watched his every move with cold calculation.

"Oh. Hi," Peter offered.

"Hi."

He looked at the blood in the sink and on the knife, "I'll… I'll clean this up-"

"Save it. What the hell are you?" She demanded, "I find you half-dead on some god-forsaken beach, and you end up performing brain surgery in my bathroom. What the hell are you?"

Peter was silent for a few moments, "The less you know, the better," he answered at last, "I'm grateful for your help, but-"

She lifted the nine-millimeter from her side, pointing it at his face, "Answer me."

He pondered if he could take another shot, in his weakened state, and quickly decided against it, "My name is Peter," he said.

"Just Peter?"

"Yeah."

"So you're a criminal," she said, her grip on the gun tightening, "who shot you?"

"I don't really know his name," Peter admitted, and it was the truth, "He has a lot of them."

"And what are you?"

"Don't I get to know your name?" Peter questioned with a wry smile.

"No," she answered coldly, "now answer my question."

Peter was quiet in contemplation for a few moments, wondering how to categorize himself, "A mistake," he replied.

"I'm going to call the police," She said, taking a step back from the doorway, her left hand straying behind her for her cell phone amongst her keys and wallet. She cursed as she bumped a badge case, bronze flashing in the dim light of the hallway as it thudded onto the floor. Peter's eyes widened, "Don't move!" she commanded, the gun still trained on his chest.

"You're a cop," Peter said.

"Shut up!"

"Why didn't you call the police in the first place?" Peter said, his brows knitting in concern, "isn't holding me hostage in your house a crime?"

"I'm not letting you loose until I know who and what you are!" Olivia insisted.

"Unless you didn't think they'd believe you," Peter concluded, taking a step closer as a smiled played on his face, "why wouldn't they believe you…" he could now see her badge clearly enough to make out a name, "…Agent Dunham?"

"Just shut up! Get back into the bathroom!" She snapped.

Peter shrugged, "Okay. Bring me a towel, I'm going to take a shower," and he shut the door before her.

"_Peter_!" she cried, banging on the door, "Open this door! What are you doing?!"

He turned on the shower and ignored her.

xXx

"Hey, Farnsworth," His words stopped her as she had her things, and was headed out the door.

"Yes, Mr. Luciano…?" Astrid questioned with a wince, slowly turning back to him. He was looking at the previous nights roster.

"Who's this Bishop clown? When'd he check in?"

Astrid paused, "A little after two."

"In the morning?!" Luciano exclaimed.

"Yeah."

Luciano shook his balding head, "Nighttime sure throws out some freaks. Why don't you pop up to thirteen B before you go and tell him he's overstayed his payment?"

Astrid frowned, "But he hasn't. He checked in after midnight- he's paid for today."

Luciano smiled around his half-eaten Swisher Sweet, "_He _don't know that."

Astrid sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine, whatever," and she shouldered her bag, pushing out of the office.

"That's why I keep ya, sweetheart!" he called after.

Astrid was glaring at the steps as she mounted them, a bitter crease at the side of her mouth. He _always_ did this. She was _always _stuck at this damn hotel an hour and a half after her shift ended, doing Luciano's dirty work and running sleeping patrons out of their rooms hours before they had to go, so cleaning could get in early.

She'd wasted too much of her life here.

Astrid stopped and sighed up at the brass characters on the faded green door, her thoughts returning to much earlier that morning, when she had proudly returned to Dr. Bishop, having managed to acquire all of the things on his list, and he hadn't answered the door. She had left the grocery bags on the doormat and tucked the ridiculously excessive tip into the socks.

He'd either taken the bags in, or they had been stolen. Strangely, she didn't care which. Luciano, Dr. Bishop… she dealt with jerks all the time.

Astrid raised her knuckles to knock on the door, and it creaked open. She looked around, uncertain of what to make of the situation, and at last she pushed the door further open, sticking her head inside, "Dr. Bishop…?" she questioned.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. The bed was a mess, scattered pillows and sheets covered with crumbs and junk food wrappers. The television was on but muted, and the phone was off the hook, emitting a constant, low beep. The blankets had been removed from the bed and tacked over the windows, blocking nearly all light. Utterly bewildered, Astrid stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her, "Dr. Bishop?"

She glanced into the bathroom as she passed, the sink filled with small, white, cardboard boxes and wrappers for medical bandages. His luggage had been piled in the corner, consisting of a black medical bag and his spent, torn clothing. For once, Astrid saw something she had _not _noticed- his nametag announced him as one William Bell, and that he worked for a place called Massive Dynamic.

There was a gentle thud from within the closet, and Astrid swallowed as she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Had Dr. Bishop asked her about closets _to hide someone in them?! _What if he had kidnapped someone?!

Astrid suddenly frowned. No. Nothing exciting ever happened at the 'Lux Inn'. She approached the closet carefully, none the less, and was quick to pull open the door, before she lost her nerve.

Dr. Bishop tumbled out of the small space, the support for his head suddenly displaced, and he gave a small squeak of surprise as he landed, sprawling, at Astrid's feet, "Dr. Bishop?!" Astrid exclaimed.

He blinked up at her, and his eyes widened with fear as he scrambled backward, back into the closet, wedging himself into the corner and staring.

"Dr. Bishop, It's me, Astrid," Astrid said carefully, instinctively kneeling to his level, "It's okay, it's just me. The girl at the desk, remember? Wool socks, blue cotton candy?" she smiled hopefully.

"You didn't take your tip," he managed at last, after calming a bit.

"It was a pretty massive tip," Astrid laughed, "and you were pretty tired last night, I don't think you meant to give me that much money."

"It's not my money," Dr. Bishop said, "You can have all of it, if you like." Astrid rose and stepped aside as he got to his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from his pajama trousers and emerging from the closet. He shut the door, and nothing more about the incident was said.

"How are you feeling, today?" Astrid asked as he went to the bed, pushing aside wrappers to have a seat.

"Sore. But better, thank you," he shrugged, and Astrid suddenly wondered if the man's irritability was simply an offset of his previous exhaustion. The dim was beginning to clear away as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and Astrid could see that while his cuts and bruises had been fresh the night before, they had now been cleaned and had become the dark brown color of proper healing. White butterfly bandages patched his jagged lacerations now and again, like bits of napkin stuck to shaving cuts.

"Looks like you patched yourself up pretty well," Astrid admitted, and snapped her fingers as she suddenly remembered her objective, "oh! And… your stay's up."

Dr. Bishop looked mildly surprised, and looked over at the clock on the night table, "Nonsense," he responded shortly, "I checked in after midnight."

Astrid dropped her head with a tired laugh, "You did. Would you like to call my manager?"

"No. I'm assuming he's the one that put you up to this, correct?"

Astrid blinked, "Yes. How-?"

"And if I call down, he's only going to say it was your mistake. And that makes him a liar, as well, and I can't tolerate liars in the least. So no, I'm not calling down, and no, I'm not leaving." he lay back on the mattress, moving his arms back and fourth to create a crumb and wrapper angel.

Astrid waited a few moments, before asking at last, "What are you going to do, then?"

"I'm going to spend the rest of the morning here until he comes out to throw me out himself, which I somehow doubt will ever happen," Dr. Bishop responded quietly.

Astrid laughed, "Okay. Good luck, Dr. Bishop," she said, heading for the door.

He raised his head to look over his chest, "Call me Walter. And where are you going?"

"I'm off work," Astrid replied, "I'm going home."

Walter was silent for a few moments. "Oh," he said at last, and let his head fall back with a thud. He said nothing more.

Astrid took it as her queue to go, and shut the door behind herself, shifting her bag on her shoulder as she started for the stairs. She didn't have time to ponder the meaning of Walter somehow arriving to interrupt her existence…

…but she did it anyways.

xXx


	3. Sine Language

Chpt. Three: _(Sine Language)_

The bastard was right. They wouldn't have believed her- she doubted if they would have believed her if she had pointed out the nose on their face, at this point. Too much had happened, for them not to question her antics…

But she swore to god, there was a corpse using her shower.

Begrudgingly, she had eventually thrown the towel at the door and stormed off, sitting in the living room with an extra clip on the coffee table for good measure. Olivia wondered if she were just being stupid- surely he'd just shower and leave, and she'd be sitting and twiddling her thumbs with another bogus story to tell the people at the hospital when the patty wagon came to haul her off. But there was little else she could do, than be on her guard and hope for answers.

She looked up from contemplating her situation as he appeared in the hallway, rubbing his ear dry. He carried with him his shirt and jacket, and appeared to have forgotten to shave, "Thanks for the towel," he said with a smirk.

"Don't mention it," Olivia grumbled, glaring.

"What's for breakfast?" Peter asked.

"I don't know. What do you eat? Brains?"

He laughed, "I'm not a zombie. And don't go around saying things like that, people will start to talk," Olivia did not find amusement in his sentiments, and his smile faded, "listen, I'm sorry. I'll get out of your hair, okay? You can just forget all of this happened, alright?"

"Oh, _really_?" Olivia questioned incredulously, "Oh, why _thank you_. Thank you so, _so _much, I really appreciate it. Because it would just be hell, if I didn't go on wondering if I'd released some sort of maniac-"

"And I'm not a maniac. I just-" he stilled, looking as if he were listening, "do you live with anyone?"

"What?"

"You don't live with anyone. That noise…" he dropped the towel, starting for the door.

Olivia met him there, a gun to his jaw, "Where the hell do you think you're going?" she growled.

He looked down at her, his eyes steely, "get out of my way!" he hissed. Olivia saw now, at closer inspection, that the bullet hole in his head had all but disappeared. She was gaping as he pushed her roughly to the side, slamming open the door, "Alright, you son of a bitch, _where are you_?!" he cried, coming to a halt in her gravel driveway, "get out here, god damn it!"

"Hey!" Olivia yelled, following him out, "Stop!"

"Back off!" he barked at her, holding up a finger in warning, and Olivia stilled, swallowing. His entire demeanor had changed entirely, like a shark hitting the sent of blood in the water. He returned his savage gaze to the surrounding undergrowth, "_September_!"

Olivia stepped back in alarm as a figure seemed to appear out of thin air, stepping out from behind her Jeep. His hands were held away from his body, palms showing, "I'm here," he said calmly.

Peter crossed the distance between them in a matter of seconds, grabbing September by his dark collar and slamming him back against the side of the vehicle, "Where is he?!" Peter demanded.

"I can't tell you," September answered, still calm as his hat slipped and fell from his bare head.

"But you can put a bullet in my skull?!" Peter demanded.

"I can't tell you because I don't know," September said firmly, "I can't find him."

"So he's dead?" Peter questioned, his grip loosening slightly as he eyed the stranger with cynicism.

"I didn't say that. I said that I have been unable to locate him," September clarified.

"You can find anyone, September- it's what you do. He's dead, or you're protecting him," Peter growled, "and you're breaking the rules of engagement."

September was the picture of ease, even as the top button of his shirt popped loose, "You've gone to far. Your lapses are getting worse, you cannot control them."

"Because I'm getting closer! Every damn day, I'm closer to killing that bastard!" he released Septembers' collar, "Find him, September. Find him, tell him that I'm coming. And this time, you won't be able to stop me." Peter turned on his heel, facing Olivia. She recoiled slightly, her grip on her gun tightening. If she had to shoot, she had to shoot… and she'd make sure he didn't survive.

"Don't touch her," September said quietly, and Peter froze.

"Or what?"

"Prove to me you're still worth saving, Peter Bishop. Spare her. Prove you're still human," September stooped to retrieve his hat, "It's not such a difficult request."

Peter considered a few moments, and snorted, "For your information, I was only going to borrow her car."

"What?!" Olivia stammered breathlessly.

"You want to know what I am, don't you?" Peter questioned darkly, "what better way than to see what I was born to do?"

xXx

Astrid slept only three hours before her early lunch shift at the café started. She had enough time to shower and change before she caught the bus down to the gas station, and walked about a block to 'Rachel's Café'.

Her screen door banged shut as she skipped the last, creaky steps to the dirt pathway to the driveway, and her neighbor, an elderly woman by the name of Mrs. Barry, called to her from her tomato garden, "Are you going to work, Astrid?"

"Yeah," Astrid called back, moving one of Mrs. Barry's numerous cats from her wooden gate, "I'll see you when I get back, okay?"

Mrs. Barry leaned on her garden rake, shaking her head, "You work yourself to a frazzle, child. You need a man to take care of you-"

"Yes, thank you for the advice from the pioneer days, Mrs. Barry," Astrid called back. She wanted to skip the prohibition-era small talk, and added, "I'm late!" as she slipped quickly between the tall wooden fences that separated them and disappeared.

It was talk like Mrs. Barry's, however caring it may have been, that had kept Astrid stifled, in this town. Had thinking not evolved? Was she not allowed to simply live her life free of their stifling, out-of-date-expectations?

A school bell was ringing somewhere in the distance, and the bus, as always, was nearly empty, and she watched the small, antiquely-charming shops pass in the bright, mid-morning sunlight. Whelps' Ridge was a popular tourist destination, in the summer, but in the off season…

Astrid sighed, propping her cheek on the heel of her hand as she rested her forehead on the window, letting the vibrations reverberate in her skull. The bus slowed to a halt at the end of the block, and she ignored it, wondering if perhaps she could sleep past her stop… or maybe the driver could loose control of the bus and drive them all off a cliff.

Her eyes snapped open as there was a knock at the glass, and she blinked, blurry-eyed, at the smiling, bruised face before her, "Dr. Bishop-?!"

He waved jovially as the bus set into motion again, and Astrid turned backward in her seat, watching his limping form grow smaller in the distance, and she could see a bunch of red tulips tucked into his side bag beside a protruding French bread roll and newspaper before the bus turned a corner and he disappeared.

She turned forward in her seat, frowning. Walter Bishop- or, William Bell?- certainly was different from the daisy-plucking, prehistorically-opinionated people she had dealt with her entire life. Whether or not this was a good thing, she had yet to decide. She delved into her bag and drew out her ipod and ear buds, settling back in her seat to ignore the world.

Her shift started without comment as she tied her red apron around her front, punched in her time card, and ran a load of iced-tea glasses through the sanitizer again. A few tables later, she approached a solitary patron in a booth beside the front window, "Welcome to Rachel's Café, my name is Astrid. Is there anything I can get you?"

"What would you suggest?" Walter questioned politely, folding his menu and looking up at her quizzically.

Astrid blinked for a few moments in shock. She hadn't recognized him without the dirt and or his broken glasses, more or less with the warm smile he gave her now, "Oh! Um, hi, Dr. Bishop- or, Walter, I guess. It's nice to see you out and about…"

He raised a hand to touch the band-aid on his forehead in a small, twitchy act of self-consciousness, "Yes, well. If only for a bit, I'm not feeling up to much. But I am hungry- is there anything you could suggest, for my brunch?"

Astrid considered for a few moments, "Well, the pancakes are pretty good- what? What is it?" she questioned, as he was chuckling softly.

"Ah. It's only that you offer boysenberry syrup. But do, go on."

"Anyways, I'd only keep away from the French dip sandwich. The rest of the menu is alright."

"I once spilled French dip sauce on my tuxedo," Walter was musing as he looked over the menu a last time before he folded it shut, handing it to Astrid with a smile, "Halloween, you know? Anyways, I think I'll have the pancakes, as you've suggested, and a cup of coffee. Full stack, if you would."

Nodding, Astrid jotted down a quick '_full stack+ coffee_' on her small notepad, "What kind?" she asked, "Of Pancakes, I mean. We've got strawberry, blueberry, banana walnut…"

Walter hesitated, "Do you have chocolate chip?"

"No, sorry."

"Hmm. Well, old fashioned flapjacks, if you would," he sat back in the booth, drumming his fingertips on the glossy wooden tabletop in anticipation as his eyes strayed to the bright morning outside the glass window. Astrid departed from his tableside, making her way down the narrow aisle toward the counter. She thought that perhaps she could hear him humming something, before her attention was suddenly consumed by a new arrival in the café.

The door bell jingled as the door shut, and no one else seemed to notice the strangers' appearance, however bizarre his tall, dark frame in the doorway was to Astrid. His eyes spanned the eatery in one sweeping motion, seeming to memorize every detail as he removed his black fedora to reveal a stark lack of hair on his head and features, and he held the hat to his breast as he continued inside.

Astrid stared as he passed, sparing her only a quick, dismissing glance. He came to a halt before Walter's table, and his voice was soft and quiet, "May I sit here?"

Walter looked up, and to Astrid's bewilderment, smiled warmly, "Certainly, September."

Astrid was snapped back to her senses as the kitchen bell chimed with a quick call of "Order up!", and she hurried to collect and distribute the orders. From the corner of her eye, she watched to odd pair, speaking in quiet, civil tones too soft to decipher accurately. She nearly spilled the drink she was pouring as the bald stranger leaned across the table to kiss Walter's ear. Then, abruptly, as Astrid was working up the courage to go over and ask if he wanted anything, he rose to his feet, bid Walter farewell, and departed from the restaurant.

Astrid gathered Walter's order and took it to the table, settling it before him, "here you go," she said brightly, and set a small plastic thermal pitcher beside his plate, "and some more coffee."

"Thank you," Walter said, grabbing up the syrup and beginning to unceremoniously smother his pancakes. Next he moved to pouring it into his coffee, "This all looks quite delicious…"

Astrid kicked herself in the ankle and blurted out her comment, "I saw your friend," she said.

"Yes. He has no eyebrows," Walter conceded cheerfully, pointing to his own as he cut an extra-large bite of pancakes, then wolfed it down. He licked syrup from his lip and set to work again.

Astrid looked up at the counter, then around at the patrons. At last she sat in the booth across from him, where the stranger had been, "Who… who was he?"

"Just ask you've said- my friend," Walter dunked his bacon in his sugary coffee and ate it, "I'm only surprised that you've paid him any mind at all. People tend to ignore him, the poor fellow. Turning on their sprinklers at inopportune times, things like that. He doesn't like barbeques, either."

Astrid frowned flatly, "What?"

"Astrid! What are you doing!?" her manager demanded.

"S-sorry!" Astrid stammered, scrambling to her feet and smoothing down her apron. She was stilled as Walter touched her wrist.

He was looking up at her seriously, "It is best not to ask questions, miss," he said. He released her and returned to his pancakes, nearly finished, "I'm assuming you work two jobs to keep yourself occupied, is that it?"

"Well…" Astrid said uneasily.

"Astrid!" the manager reprimanded again, and she had no choice but to scamper back to her station without giving Walter a proper answer, "don't let me catch you slacking off again, Farnsworth!" was hissed into her ear.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she muttered back. Walter left her another ridiculously hefty tip.

xXx


	4. Sine of Struggle

Chpt. Four: _(Sine of Struggle)_

"Music?"

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Peter smiled, "A bit."

Olivia looked over at him, at last breaking her stare from the road ahead, through the fog, "I'm serious as a damn heart attack. If you try anything, you'll be in worse shape then when I found you."

There was silence in the cab of the Rubicon for a few minutes.

"Where are we going?" Olivia asked at last.

"I don't know," Peter answered, "But I think I have more to question about you than you do me. What kind of girl goes off on a road trip with a man she believes to be a zombie?"

"A crazy one," she sighed.

"I've been around a lot of crazys. You don't seem the type."

She glared, "Says zombie boy."

Peter laughed, and again Olivia was astounded with how strangely charming he seemed to be, at times. And how quickly that attitude could change to something far darker, "You're awfully moody, for a cop," he said in jest, and he began to poke around in the assortment of Cds displayed on her blind, "Evanessence? Creed? Kings of Leon? A little emotional, I should think."

"I'm not a cop," Olivia said, slightly offended, "and I don't need Mr. bullet-for-brains critiquing my choices in music!"

"You're not a cop?" Peter questioned, seeming curious and slightly confused.

"I'm Homeland Security," Olivia said, crossing her arms across her chest, "turn on the lights, it's starting to get dark."

"Oh? So you're BP?" Peter questioned., obliging her request. The wet, black asphalt became visible under two twin rays of light.

"Customs, dick."

"Interesting," Peter mused, still in a cheerful mood as he selected a Cd, passing it to her, indicating that she should put it into the player mounted low on the dash, "so I guess you wouldn't have anything useful in here, like, say, a police radio?"

"Why?" Olivia questioned suspiciously.

"No reason," Peter murmured.

"So you get to ask me questions, but I don't get crap for answers from you?" Olivia snapped, irritated at his dismissive demeanor.

"It's not my fault that woman like to talk about themselves," Peter professed, and Olivia felt heat fleck her features. He smiled at her, "besides. I'm a much more interesting person when you don't know me."

"And yet I somehow doubt that," Olivia muttered, at last inserting the disk into the player and pressing _play_. Shortly, Franz Ferdinand began to emerge from the speakers. Immediately, Olivia ejected the disk, throwing it into the glove box and slamming the compartment door, her breath short.

"Is there a problem?" Peter questioned, arching a brow.

"No."

"You just went caveman on Franz Ferdinand. You didn't offer up any music suggestions, so I wanted to listen to that."

"No. Shut up." Olivia shut her eyes to calm herself, swallowing back a panic attack that was already threatening to burst out.

Frowning slightly, Peter released one hand from the wheel, reaching across the console to open the glove box, "I don't know what your-"

"I SAID NO!" Olivia snarled, slamming his hand in the small door sharply. He was retracting with a gasp of pain as she drew out her pistol, blasting a shot into his leg.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Peter yelled, the jeep swerving sharply as blood spurted from the wound.

"Ohmigawd!" Olivia cried, dropping the gun and raising her hands to her mouth, "ohmigawd, Peter, I am so sorry-!"

"You just _kneecapped _me, you crazy-!"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry! I-I just, I got carried away-"

"_Jesus H. Christ_!" Peter boomed, his voice squeaking slightly as Olivia tried to put pressure on the rapidly expanding spot of blood on his leg, and he aimed the jeep back onto the road, "Don't touch it! What the fuck is wrong with you, crazy lady?!"  
"Come on, it can't hurt that bad…" Olivia started.

"_WHAT?!_"

"Peter, we need to stop so I can bandage you. This is bleeding a lot- you need to calm down, or you'll go into shock!" Olivia said.

"Stop?! Why, so you can finish me off with a shovel an leave my body in the woods?! Yer a god-damn psycho!" He gritted his teeth as he reached down to clamp off the artery on his inner thigh, just below his groin, "Oh my fucking god, _Misery_!"

"I didn't mean it, Peter, and I'm really sorry," Olivia insisted, switching on the overhead light and delving into the glove compartment for some napkins as she flushed red, "But I can help you, if you let me!"

"Alright, alright, we'll stop," Peter said, wincing as she pressed the paper napkins over his leg, "and no Franz Ferdinand, I get it."

Olivia was slightly confused, but said nothing as they pulled into a private drive just off the highway, and in a few minutes arrived at a small house just below the timberline, "Let's go," Peter grunted gruffly as he shut off the engine, kicking open the door.

"Is this your place?" Olivia questioned at last as she helped him limp his way up the small garden path to the steps to the porch.

"Nope," he responded.

"Are you staying with friends?"

"Nope. Come on, let's just get inside before I bleed out, 'kay?" he smiled at her warily, returning a hairpin to his pocket as he pushed the door open and shuffled inside.

Olivia was quick to note the dust covers over the furniture as she hurried to the bathroom for what she could find along the lines of a med kit.

When she returned, Peter was shuffling around in the cabinets and refrigerator. He brightened as she entered the kitchen, "We've got a lovely assortment of cup-o-noodles and tinned green beans," he offered, his face unhealthily pallid, "oh, and butterscotch pudding. But I don't know how old it is."

"Sit down, you anemic bastard," Olivia said, pulling a tall backed, wooden chair away from the sheet-covered table for him, "I got what I could to patch you up. Though, you probably could have managed with a heated spoon or something, huh?" she attempted a weak smile, to no avail.

"I've lost more blood this week than I had originally intended," Peter mused as he sat, the effort slow and stiff with discomfort, "but hell…" he shifted a bit as Olivia set to unbuckling his belt and pulling his slacks off, leaving him in his under shorts, and a small smile tugged at the sides of his mouth, "I guess it could be worse."

xXx

_If you would…_

The sticky sap that oozed from the wounded end of a freshly cut sunflower stalk.

_If you would, Walter…_

The fresh smell of cold lake water in the reeds, the rush of lake grass against the cuffs of his jeans and the firm prickle of Russian thistle at his elbow. The brilliant sparkle of the morning sunlight off of his glasses as she pulled them from his face, discarding them into the grass with the sunflowers and her blouse.

_If you would, Walter, simply kill her…_

Her weight on his chest and the soft feel of eyelashes against his neck; the bitter, dusty taste of wine on her lips. The beautiful realization that this woman was flawless in every way, even as her skin burned at his touch and she trailed her fingers down his chest. The dark, circular mark on his forearm, as he raised a hand to touch her hair.

_If you would?_

xXx

Walter woke with a start, his head striking the wooden paneling of the dark closet interior, and he issued a short curse. He lay curled on the itchy carpet in breathless silence for a few moments, listening alertly as he nursed his bruised cranium mutely, until at last he issued a sigh, finding himself alone.

He wrapped his arms around his drawn legs, nestling his sweating face in his warm knees. His hands tightened into fists, and even after so many years, he was surprised not to feel the smooth slip of a ring between his fingers. His eyebrows dipped as he shut his eyes tightly.

Walter sighed again, pushing himself to a sitting position and scratching at his lower back, where the artificial fibers of the carpet had touched his skin. At last he pushed open the closet door, emerging from his warm hiding place and into the cold of the rest of the hotel room. He inhaled the dark deeply, brushing the sweat away from the sides of his face with his fingertips as he crossed the room, his toes finding the cold steel threshold of the bathroom, then the slick linoleum tiles within.

He squinted and grunted in discomfort as he flicked on the lights, blinking as his irises readjusted themselves to the bright atmosphere. His hands clumsily found his black leather handbag in the sink, and he stooped to rummage about inside. He knew that alcohol wouldn't work anymore, nothing lesser than absinthe, anyways, nor did any of the regular-grade psychotics, legal or otherwise. His readymade remedy would have to do, it seemed…

He tugged out a long, thin, white strip of surgical rubber, wadding it in his fist as he searched out a small, zippered case, opening it on the lip of the sink. It was a small display of sterile syringes, and he selected one, tearing it from the plastic wrapper and arranging it on the counter. He fished out a small, dark brown bottle carefully wrapped in cotton and settled in a side compartment of the bag, and he pulled it from its nest as if it were the egg of a rare bird. Pushing off the wax seal on the vial with his thumb, Walter readied the syringe, poking it past the rubber stopper to measure out his desired dosage carefully. He tossed the empty bottle back into the bag, taking the syringe and settling, cross-legged, in the empty bathtub.

Walter pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, tightening the tourniquet around his bicep with his teeth as he repeatedly slapped his inner elbow until it was red. Flexing his arm stiffly, the needle found its mark on an a dark, pulsing artery. Walter took a deep breath, and squeezed.

His eyes seemed to roll back in his head as he let out a quiet moan through clenched teeth, his veins feeling as if burning metal were coursing through them. The cold of the porcelain against his body felt amazing as he slipped lower into the tub, the needle creating a long, deep tear as he was unable to withhold his gleeful, distant laugh.

Jesus, that kick just never got old.

His mind was burning, now, with thoughts and questions without answers. It was nearly maddening, as all he found himself able to do was lay in the amazingly cold, amazingly smooth bathtub.

At length, he emerged from the bathtub, his movements slow and cautious, as his body still buzzed and quaked slightly with the aftershock of his elation. The syringe clattered in the sink as he passed, emerging into the room where he could breathe. The air in the room felt thick and fake, and at last he made his way to the window, seizing the blanket that covered it and wrenching it off, along with the entire curtain fixture. He threw open the wide, tall window to let in the night air and the brilliant light of a sliver of moon, low in the sky and nearing the horizon.

A small breeze touched his face, and he shut his eyes as it felt like chilled fingers along his jaw. The scents on the wind seemed to change with each passing moments as he inhaled the night air, at times hinting of rain, of pine, and of… lake.

His hands gripped the window sill as he felt dizzy, and he stabilized himself, opening his eyes to look out over the back lot of the motel, a long, brown strip of barren earth backed by a tall, chain-link fence. It looked dark and unwelcoming, at night, as most places did anyways, but he knew that when the sun touched the fence, there were small, white daisies poking up from the edge of the lot, with a possibility of wild strawberries.

A familiar feeling overtook him, one that had been growing increasingly stronger, as time was passing. This was a kind of place where he wished he could stay… where perhaps he could visit the small shops when he felt the need, stop in at the local café for coffee and maple syrup, or simply wander a place called home in search of a sunny place to read and take a nap. Where nothing changed and he could always see the world in the light. His were such simple wants.

He guessed that he was just tired.

Movement grabbed his attention, and he immediately retracted back into the motel room, watching suspiciously. A figure emerged from a back door some place, keys jingling distantly as they carried a bag of trash along, toward the dumpster. His thoughts jumped about in his paranoia, until he at last recognized the form as the girl from the desk, and the restaurant, the one that had been asking so many questions about September… what was her name? He thought hard, despite his drug-induced haze, drawing an inconclusive blank.

She reached the dumpster and gave a soft call, several small, fast forms of stray cats darting out to meet her. Looking around cautiously, she stooped, pulling open the bag to retrieve a bottle of milk and a saucer.

Walter smiled, propping his elbows on the window sill, resting his face on the heels of his hands to quietly watch from the dark, "Feeding strays," he murmured softly, shaking his head.

xXx


	5. Sine Prole

Chpt. Five: _(Sine Prole)_

His knee gave a throb and he groaned, punching the pillow. He had lost count hours ago of the number of times he had awoken to pain that night, his exposed leg chill and uncomfortable with cold. Fog seemed to run rampant through the house… the explanation then becoming obvious as to why its true owners only occupied it in the summer, leaving it free for the pillaging, during the colder months.

But Peter had stayed in worse.

He chanced covering his leg with the comforter as he shivered, and immediately regretted his attempt as the surface of the wound began to sting. "There has to be some booze, in this place," Peter growled, throwing the blankets away and slowly pushing himself to his feet.

He switched on a lamp atop the dust-covered table, stumbling his way around the shrouded furniture on his way to what he guessed was the study. And a study was for entertaining… which meant that it had to have a bar…

There was no lamp he could use for guidance in the wide, open room, his eyes only registering the vague, black silhouettes of furniture as he tried to avoid it, feeling around for anything that resembled a mini-fridge. He found nothing for his efforts, until his hand brushed away a dustcover to land heavily on the floor, his fingertips gracing smooth, glossy wood.

Peter paused, "Nah," he said to himself in disbelief, "Nah, no body would leave this out to rot like this, it's sinful…" His touches lead him around to the bench seat of the baby grand piano, and it gave a slight creak as he sat, ignoring his protesting painful leg, "What kind of an asshole…?" He laughed, pushing up the key guard, carefully drumming out a chord, "well, at least they kept you in tune…"

Peter's hands fairly floated over the keys as he played, his notes ringing a mournful hollow in the fog. This tone made it impossible for him to play anything jazzy or upbeat, which he preferred, as his memories only found a small melody he could barely remember to bring to his fingertips.

He looked up sharply as there was a noise, and Olivia, wrapped in a blanket, pulled up a chair beside the piano in the dark, sitting to listen quietly. Smiling, Peter continued with his music, until at last the song ended, and the fog ensured the silence around them, in the empty house.

"How's your leg?" Olivia asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she were afraid to shatter the quiet.

"It's alright," Peter answered in a murmur, "I couldn't sleep. Sorry if I woke you."

"I'd much rather wake up to piano than the sound of you driving off in my jeep," Olivia joked, "Your playing is beautiful. Where did you learn?"

"My mom taught me," Peter replied, "when I was little. I never put it into much practice, actually. Not with what I do…"

"What do you do?" Olivia asked. There was no eager curiosity in her voice, nor her characteristic cynicism. Only a casual tone of understanding.

"I used to write children's books," Peter answered with a smile.

Olivia chuckled with disbelief, "What? You're kidding me, right?"

Peter shook his head, drumming out a soft, deep chord to let it ring in the damp air, "No lie. I've written and published a bunch of them, people say they're pretty good. But I don't have time to write much, anymore."

"Why's that?"

"Reasons. What about you? Have you got any?"

"Any what? Children's books?" Olivia said, a hint of mirth in her comments, "No, sorry."

"Not children's books, you smartass," Peter laughed, "I meant kids- have you got any?"

"No. Just a niece. I love her to pieces, though, even if she and my sis live all the way in Connecticut." Olivia stretched with a tired sigh, then tightened the blanket around herself to shut out the cold.

"Won't she miss you, if you're gone?" Peter asked, rubbing his goose bumped arms with his roughened, calloused palms. Too rough for the ivories, he thought.

"Doesn't _your _family miss _you_?" Olivia responded simply, "what about your publisher, people like that?"

"I don't have family," Peter said emotionlessly, "And publishers never miss anybody, believe me. But I guess you're right. You only have to stay tethered someplace if someone cares enough to make sure you're still there."

"And just when I thought we were having a normal conversation," Olivia sighed, "Oh, well. But go on. This is the first time I'm getting anything close to answers from you- maybe I should shoot you in the knees more often."

Peter shook his head, grinning, "I'm not a run-on sort of guy. Besides- and I'm serious about this- the less you know, the better."

"Then why did you choose to bring me along?"

Peter thought in silence for a few moments, "…I don't know," he replied at last, "I don't know my reasons for a lot of things, actually. Maybe my mind is slipping. Maybe I need to get some help. Maybe both of us need to get some help, and we're just too damn lazy to do anything about it. But as for me… I'm hunting down the man who killed my mother."

xXx

"Hey. You. Miss." There was a cold, singular touch on the back of her head, waking her suddenly.

Astrid scrambled upright, shuffling papers and her magazine on the desk in an attempt to appear busy and alert, "I swear to god I wasn't sleeping, Mr. Luciano! I was- I was just thinking, with-with my eyes shut-!"

Walter Bishop looked slightly alarmed through his half-shattered spectacles, the finger he had used to poke her twitching slightly over the countertop, hand still extended.

"Tomatoes aren't vegetables," Astrid finished weakly.

He nodded slowly, retracting his appendage to leave it at his side.

"Is there something I can do for you, Walter?" Astrid asked brightly, hoping to pass over her painful embarrassment, "this fine evening? Morning? …Moment?"

He looked away from her to delve into the pocket of his jeans. It was then that Astrid realized how casual his attire was, "Going out for a bit of hiking, Dr. B?" Astrid questioned, observing his heavily treaded boots and hooded parka.

"Yes. No. Maybe." Walter shook his head, tugging a slip of paper from his pocket, a fold of bills paper clipped to it, "I never wear anything with zippers- buttons are easy to remove. I have another favor, if… if you would. Another list, I need the items here, and you did a very good job, last time…"

"Oh. Thanks," Astrid took the list from him, unfolding, "I'll go out and get these and run them up to your room-"

"I'm going out for a bit," Walter said, the entire affair seeming to make him nervous as he shifted from one foot to the other, "it is more than likely that you will have gathered my requirements long before I return. In the event that I am gone for an extended period, please just leave the things in the room, if you would. And…"

"And?" Astrid questioned, confused and slightly alarmed as he glanced out of the window near the door, into the foggy twilight.

"How many roads lead into this town?" Walter questioned, appearing very serious as he returned his eyes to her face.

"Whelps' Ridge? Just one, in and out. Well, not counting all the back roads. Why?"

He sighed, seeming tired, and nodded glumly, "I see. And would there be somewhere I could get a map of the roads not listed on the local plot?" he held up the map she had purchased for him the day before at the truck stop.

Astrid frowned, "Sorry, no. No one makes any note of them- they change seasonally, according to the weather conditions. And new ones are popping up all the time. Again, sorry."

Walter cursed softly under his breath, and he fell silent, his fingers perusing his chin as he watched the repeating, pipe-related screensaver on the hibernating computer monitor situated on the desk.

Astrid blurted out her offer before she could stop herself, "I could show you."

His eyebrows shot up on his forehead, "You would do that?"

Astrid smiled, "Sure. I grew up here, I know it better than anyone. I've… I've never left, actually," she let out an uneasy laugh, raising a hand to scratch the back of her neck, "it's pretty sad, I know."

Walter considered a feather-topped pen in the cup on the reception desk for a few more moments, touching it with his fingertip before nodding, as if to confirm something to himself, "Hmm. Well, if it wouldn't be too terribly much trouble, I'd like to take you up on your offer. When do you get off?"

Astrid smirked, a strange feeling of _not caring_ suddenly overtaking her, and she folded her magazine shut, chucking it in with the rest of the messy paperwork on the desk, "Let me get my coat."

xXx


	6. Stop Sine

Chpt. Six: _(Stop Sine)_

"Is it always so…wet, here?" Peter questioned from his leaned-back position in the off driver's seat, watching the fog condense against the windshield as they drove.

"Pretty much, when it isn't rainy," Olivia replied, slowing down the windshield wipers to an even pace with the rotation of the tires. It made them easier to count, "You missed most of the sun the day you were out."

"It seems gloomy and miserable, here," Peter frowned, crossing his arms behind his head, "I don't know how you can take it being _wet_ all the time. Bleh."

"I like it," Olivia said, "I've always liked rain. Ever since I transferred from my last post in California. The southern border sucks."

"Speaking of which," Peter said, "I mean, now that you've brought it up. Don't you have a job that will be missing you about now, agent Dunham?"

Olivia was quiet for a few moments, gauging her response carefully, "No," she answered at last.

"Why not? Are you on vacation?"

"Something like that." Olivia silently congratulated herself- she could be just as secretive as he could, if she wanted to be.

"Hmm. Well. How's about we stop for breakfast? My ramen is running low on me," Peter said, patting his stomach. Olivia was laughing quietly as he asked "what? What's so damn funny, eh?"

"I don't know. You just don't seem the type to waltz into a diner and casually order up some pancakes," Olivia said.

"Who said I wanted pancakes? Maybe I want waffles," Peter said, a note of offense in his voice, "And I don't waltz- who the hell says 'waltz', anymore?!"

"I say waltz. I say waltz all the time-"

"Name one conversation in the history of your life where you have found the term 'waltz' applicable," Peter demanded, "Name _one_."

"This one. Just now," Olivia smirked, "you heard me."

Peter laughed in disbelief, "Lame, agent Dunham, lame."

"Like your leg."

"Ouch! You're mean!" Peter said, mock-pouting, "Of anyone, you should be sympathetic toward my current condition, as it _is _of your doing. But anyways, I'm getting distracted. How's about breakfast? My treat."

"You can front for breakfast, but you live in other people's houses when they aren't around? Why don't you just get a hotel? They have continental breakfast. And less fog."

Peter shook his head, "Firstly, I don't live there, I only rent the place for a night. Sort of like camping out. And secondly, hotels often have electronic rosters. They can track that."

"Who's they?" Olivia questioned.

Peter only shook his head, "Don't worry about it. Listen, you know these parts, right? Do you know any really small, out-of-the way places? Places that get passed up without much notice?"

"Literally hundreds. Why?"

Peter hissed a curse, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "I'll have to get a map. He can't have gone far. Maybe he thinks he's safe, maybe he thinks I'm dead. I don't know."

Olivia added nothing to his comments.

"That diner, there!" Peter sat up in the seat, pointing excitedly, "that one! It's- what are you doing? We passed it."

"You know how you keep saying you're not a zombie?" Olivia said wryly, "Well, you kind of look like one," she motioned to his tattered suit, complete with tears and bloodstains, "if you don't want to draw notice, we're going to need to get you some new clothes."

"Why?" Peter questioned suspiciously.

"Because you smell like a mushroom. A… salty mushroom."

"And just what the hell is your basis of comparison?! Smelled any salty mushrooms lately, crazy lady?! Where are you getting your euphemisms?!" Peter demanded, and Olivia was laughing again.

"You just _do_, okay? Trust me. We'll just stop and pick up something less-"

"-like fungi," Peter huffed, up righting his seat, "Yeah, I get it. You're very condescending, did you know that? Sheesh."

xXx

"So what about you, then?" Walter asked as they strode along the side of the road, hands in their pockets as they looked out into the fog, "what are you doing, here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Astrid replied with a smile, stretching out a hand to catch a dew drop from the rusted barbwire fence along the road.

"Yes, I suppose you could. But I'm a much more interesting person when you don't know me," he smiled, shuffling around in his coat as they came to a stop at a fork in the road, over cropped with thick oak trees. He drew out a map and a pen from his pocket, clicking the writing implement in his fingerless-gloved hand, and he quickly sketched out a small line representation of the road they had just walked.

Astrid watched over his shoulder as he contoured even the slightest curve onto the page, "I'll bet you're a pretty good artist, Dr. B," she said.

He glanced up at her, and returned his sights to the page, "Perhaps in another life," he said quietly.

"Reincarnation?"

"Separate circumstances."

They set out walking again, and Astrid returned to explaining the featureless side road as if it were a tourist attraction, "That road leads right back up to the interstate, it only has a few private drives off of it."

"Mmm-hmm," Walter nodded, scribbling out a note in the margin of the map.

Astrid arched a brow, watching him as he wrote hurriedly, "…and Arkham asylum is just up the yellow brick road, and after that there's the sunken city of Atlantis-"

"Slow down, slow down!" Walter exclaimed, trying to keep up with his scribbling.

Astrid laughed, "You're a real card, Walter! This is just the road that leads to the old mine." she pointed ahead to the chain link gate that had surfaced through the fog. An old, rusted, barely legible sign read, in slightly smeary print: KEEP OUT.

Walter looked up at the sign and fence, seeming interested, "Have you been in there?" he questioned.

"No," Astrid lied. It was, in fact, a popular spot for young couples to loose themselves, in the dark. No one had ever claimed that it was the most romantic place… "Besides, it's pretty unsafe. And the cops check in there all the time." _To catch the teens smoking pot._

Walter was pulling open the wiring beside the gate to slip inside when Astrid stopped him, "Hey! What are you doing?!"

"Nearsighted, can't see the sign," Walter explained smugly, tapping his lenses. He held open the chain link in a half-gentlemanly way, "Are you coming?"

Astrid smiled, "Well… I guess." She climbed through the opening, and they were on their way once more.

"I keep meaning to ask you why you aren't afraid of me," Walter murmured as he scratched out a tiny depiction of a building on the map, labeling it MINE, "Most girls would think twice about going off with a strange old man they've only just met."

Astrid chuckled as they pushed their way through underbrush to find a footpath littered now and again with beer cans, "I don't know."

"I could be a vampire. I'm not, by the way."

Astrid snapped her fingers wistfully, "Darn. Just kidding. I don't know- I mean, when I met you, you were pretty much just another dill weed that stopped into the inn, rude like the rest, but… I don't know. There's just something different about you, Dr. B."

"Dill weed…?"

"We're all capable of many things, Walter- and even if you're capable of being a total jerk, I don't think you're capable of hurting anyone. You've only fallen into bad circumstances, whatever they are," Astrid stopped, striking a stray lock of hair from her eyes, "We've all done that, I think. Here it is," she made a grand gesture to mouth of a mine emerging from the side of the hill, half of the opening planked up with wood and rippled tin siding. Old, rusted mining equipment covered with spray-paint littered the maw of the ingress, "ain't it grand?"

"And just what kind of bad circumstances do you think I've gotten myself into, then?" Walter questioned, shuffling the map back into his coat.

"I don't know," Astrid said, "but you showed up in _Whelps Ridge_, for chrissake. We all have our own hells to live in, Walter, and yours is different from mine. Did you want to check it out, in there?" she nodded to the mine.

Walter contemplated her in silence for a few moments, finally deciding, "User."

"What?"

Walter stepped very close to her, looking over his glasses at her. His face was pail with the cold, his lips and the tip of his nose pink. The artificially tan bandages clinging to his skin seemed like stamps on a letter that had never reached its destination, "You feel as if you have nothing to fear from me?" he questioned.

"Walter…" Astrid said, a smile breaking across her face in childlike shyness, "what are you doing? Quit joking around…"

A gunshot rang in the still air, and Astrid gave a cry as Walter stepped behind her, his arm around her neck as something edged pressed against her kidney lightly, "Don't move!" Walter hissed into her ear, "Don't move, and I promise they won't hurt you!"

"_They?!_ Walter, what are you doing?!"

"That was a warning shot, Alexander. The next one will be your last, if you try to run."

"Broyles," Walter growled.

His tall, dark form was stark against the fog as he stood before them, pistol aimed squarely at Walter, "Let the girl go, Alexander, and no one gets hurt. You can't deny that we have you this time, the place is surrounded."

"How?!" Walter demanded, he and Astrid stumbling back a few steps from Broyles as more dark forms began to show themselves in the fog.

"It doesn't matter. Don't hurt the girl, Alexander. Let's talk."

"Talk nothing! You idiots don't seem to get it- He'll _kill you all_, don't you understand?!" Walter cried, "How many times do I have to tell you to get the hell away from me?!"

"Calm down, Alexander," Broyles said evenly, his gaze and laser sight unwavering, "there's no need to involve her in your problems. Just let her go, and we'll make sure she gets home safely."

"Back off!" Walter snarled. Astrid's breath caught in her throat as his lips touched her ear as he whispered, "_Struggle."_

"What…?!"

"_Struggle, or he'll kill us both!"_

Broyles' hand tightened on the gun, "Unless you've made a friend, Alexander…"

Astrid attempted to pull away from Walter, giving a small cry of effort, and his grip around her tightened as he pulled her back against his chest, and he leaned in to whisper again, as if reprimanding her, "_Now hit me. As hard as you can. Go!"_

Biting her lip, Astrid raised her leg to rake her heel down Walter's shin and stomp on his foot. She folded her hands together tightly, using all of her strength to drive her elbow back, into the points of his ribcage. Walter contracted with pain, giving a yelp, and Astrid pushed away, turning to bring a savage right hook across his jaw and send him stumbling back, into the gravel, "Good job!" he wheezed, writhing with pain.

Five or six armored men rushed in to cover Walter, all but blocking him from view. Astrid stood, gaping in shock at what had happened for a few moments, before someone touched her shoulder, "I don't know If I should be asking this," Broyles said, smiling, "but are you alright, miss?"

"Yeah," Astrid replied breathlessly.

"Good. Don't worry about any of this, Ma'am- you helped in apprehending a criminal wanted by the US government. You should be pretty proud of yourself. Sheriff Francis is here to escort you home… Sheriff…"

Charlie took Astrid by the elbow, and she watched as Walter was hauled up by the armpits, giving her a last, wry smile as they drug him off down the path toward the road.

xXx


	7. Sine of Prey

Chpt. Seven: _(Sine of Prey)_

Nina Sharp looked like a woman in power. The way she dressed, the way she carried herself, and the way she spoke were all in the telling of how this was a woman that was not to be taken lightly. Whether this inspired fear or reverence was yet to be decided, but what ever the effect of her presence, she ran a tight, respected organization.

But she was a very solitary woman. The matters she dealt in demanded such a lifestyle, but, truthfully, she didn't know if it would have been what she would have chosen, had she known what she knew now.

Matters aside, she often stayed alone in her corner office, thinking of many things- perhaps regretting them- gazing out over the city. It was bright out, today, the distant cityscape a collage of blue shades in the mist of the bay.

Her desk phone gave a chime, and she looked up from watching the pigeons. Casually she turned from the expansive windows, striding over to have a quiet seat and press a button, "Who is it, Sheryl?" she asked her secretary.

"Philip Broyles, Miss Sharp."

Nina's eyebrows rose only a tiny, unnoticeable amount, a true, although subtle, sign of interest, "Put him through, if you would."

Nina suddenly cringed at her own words, and hissed a silent curse. Her discomfort was set aside as there was a soft beep through the speaker, and the deep voice of Philip Broyles questioned, "Sharp?"

"I'm here, Philip. What is it?"

"We've got him. Alexander. No sign of the boy, but we've got Alexander."

Nina sat up strait in her seat, her melancholy boredom gone, "Put him in Pins, Philip, don't take the risk of letting him loose again. I want him back here by tomorrow."

"I thought perhaps we could use him," Philip said, sounding even a bit hopeful, "to get the boy. If we put blood in the water, sharks will come. We could get them both, if we played it right."

"No, Philip," Nina said immediately, "You don't have the resources. Bring Alexander to me immediately." she was about to end the call, when Philip caught her ear.

"Nina."

She paused, her hand still over the desk console.

"Are you happy?"

Nina smiled slightly, giving a small sigh, "Yes, Philip. You've done well." She tapped a button on the console, finishing the call.

xXx

Meryl Haggard droned away softly on the speakers overhead in the small clothing outlet store, and Olivia waited. At last she stood from the chair across for the dressing rooms, striding over to strike the door of the small stall, "Come on, gorgeous- just hurry up, would you?" She called in.

_"Uno momento, por favor!"_

Olivia rolled her eyes with a small smile, returning to her seat across the way. Perhaps what made her the most pleased was that her suspicion- that he had slipped away and left her it the store- was not a reality.

The door creaked open, and she glanced up, "Whadda ya think, eh?" Peter grinned, emerging to hold his arms away from himself and give a small turn, "I'm hot, right?"

"Whatever you say," Olivia chuckled.

Peter frowned down at his new attire of jeans, hiking boots, and a dark blue flannel overshirt, "Come on, really- I don't look Canadian, do I?"

"No, you don't look Canadian. What do you have against the Canadians?"

"Really? The flannel doesn't give me the 'Paul Bunyan meets Tom Cruise' look?"

Olivia laughed, "Where did you get it in your head that you look _anything_ like Tom Cruise?"

Peter looked perfectly reasonable as he buttoned down his shirt, leaving it open to expose his under tee, "Don't you see it? I'm ghetto-fabulous."

"Can we just go?" Olivia said, shaking her head to hide a grin as she got to her feet.

"We're not leaving until you say I'm ghetto-fabulous," Peter said, looking smug as he set to rolling up his sleeves to the elbow.

"Fine," Olivia approached him, leaning up to pat his collar flat, "You're ghetto-fabulous."

John smiled at her.

"Olivia?" Peter questioned as she stepped back, retracting her touch sharply, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Olivia said, rubbing an eye with her fingertips and swallowing dryly as she regained her senses, "yeah, sure. Sorry."

"I'm just going to grab my crap and we can get back on the road-" Peter paused, his eyes sweeping the store floor to rest on the glass double-doors. His eyes narrowed, and his nostils flared, as if he were searching for a scent, "The car. Now." he said, and took off at a run.

"Peter?!" Olivia said, scrambling to keep up with him. They left his tattered formals on the floor of the dressing room. Olivia burst out of the store and into the cold fog as the jeep roared to life, Peter giving her barely enough time to jump into the off driver's seat before slamming the vehicle into drive. The tires made a small squeak as they struggled to keep up with the speed that was demanded of them, bouncing them onto the pavement of the interstate, "Peter, what's going on?!" Olivia demanded.

"The van that passed by the store was a government vehicle, I recognize it," Peter said, shifting and running a red light, "Unmarked FBI, special unit.. We have to follow them."

"What? Why?"

"Because they have the bastard. I know they do. There's only one reason they would bring in the Pins. And if they've got him, _I've got him_."

"The Pins?" Olivia questioned, "What are the Pins?"

"The Pins are a specialized set of restraints," Peter answered, "You may or may not have seen them before. Harry Houdini couldn't get out of the Pins. And I would know, I've been in them- they're inescapable. But that doesn't matter; as soon as they get him into the Pins, he's mine."

"Wait- the _government_ is after this guy?!" Olivia exclaimed.

"_Everyone _is after this guy," Peter snapped, "I've just got to make sure I'm the one that's there to kill him first!"

xXx

"Charlie, what is going on? Who were those men? Where are they taking Walter?" Astrid asked, watching the KEEP OUT sign fade away into the fog over the back seat.

"Feds, Astrid. After you said something about that guy, I went down and had a look at the roster with Luciano."

"Mr. Luciano?"

"Yeah. When I tried to look up the name 'Walter Bishop', nothing came up. And I mean nothing. Walter Bishop doesn't exist, Astrid. But it wasn't sooner than ten seconds later than I got done looking up the name when I got a call from the FBI."

"Agent Broyles," Astrid said, finally turning her sights to Charlie, as he drove.

Charlie nodded, "They said they'd been looking for a guy by the name Alexander Broo, or Bent, or something. Walter Bishop was one of his known aliases. Which brings me to my next mandate- what the hell did you think you were doing, going off alone like that?!" Charlie demanded, "What if that guy was a psycho that would have cut your head off?!"

"Charlie, they've got the wrong guy," Astrid said, ignoring his anger, "Dr. Bishop, he-"

"He took you as a hostage, Astrid! Thank god for those self-defense courses! You've got to be more careful! You've got a better head on your shoulders than that!"

"Charlie, just listen to me for a damn second!" Astrid snapped, agitated at his fatherly tone as they were both fairly close to the same age, "You know how I just know about people, right? I just know things about them that I can't explain?"

"Yeah? What about it?"

"They've got the wrong guy. Dr. Bishop… I don't know how to explain it, Charlie. He just isn't capable of doing something as horrible as what they let on-"

"And you're going to go off alone with him on a hunch?! Maybe I was wrong, and you _are_ that stupid!"

"I introduced you and Sophie, didn't I?!" Astrid demanded, "And I told you, _I told you_, she was going to be your wife! And look at you two, now!"

"Sophie isn't an _axe murderer_!" Charlie cried.

"_Neither is Walter_!"

There was silence a few moments, and Charlie sighed, "I didn't want to tell you this. I didn't want to scare you. But Luciano's gone missing. I'm getting a search warrant for Bishop- or whatever the hell his name is- I'm going to search his hotel room tomorrow."

"What? Mr. Luciano…? Are you sure he isn't just in trouble for sneaking booze across the border again?"

"I called Customs, they haven't seen him. No one has."

"But that doesn't mean it has anything to do with Walter!" Astrid insisted, "You know how I am with these feelings, Charlie; they aren't wrong."

"Where do you want me to drop you off?" Charlie asked flatly, choosing to ground the conversation there as they rounded the corner onto the main boulevard of town.

"The truck stop. I've got a shopping list I need to take care of."

xXx


	8. Sine Bin

Chapt. Eight: _(Sine Bin)_

"911 operator, what is your emergency?"

"I-I think… I think she's dead."

"What appears to be the situation, sir?"

"Dear god, she's dead."

"Sir, I need you to tell me what's wrong. We have an officer en route now- do you need medical assistance?"

"No- she's dead! Oh my god, she's dead!"

"Sir, calm down-"

"PETER, GET OUT! STAY OUT OF HERE! Oh my god-!"

"Sir, please, who is injured?"

"She isn't injured, she's fucking dead! I'm a fucking doctor- she's dead!"

"Sir-"

"No! No, It- I… oh my god…"

"Sir, _who_ is dead?"

"My name is- is Walter Bishop, and- and I think I've killed my wife-!"

xXx

"He never comes out during the day. I learned that fast. He sleeps during the day, hides. It's much easier to slip away, at night. But just as well, it's easy to search during the daylight, and that's his error. I've got him on it before- but I think this weakness in his scheduling is outweighed by the gain of being able to freely travel in the dark.

"It's surprising how people don't think twice, when he checks in early in the morning and leaves at dusk- I lost him for a whole year, once, when he was trucking. He's got an old station wagon, now, and sometimes I think it's even harder to track."

"But there have to be certain things he does that are traceable. A credit card, something. _Breadcrumbs_, fuck."

"No. Almost nothing. He's perfected his technique almost flawlessly. If he sees he's loosing weight, he eats to accommodate. If he seems too pail, he takes a nap in the sun. He's self-conscious enough to know when he seems out-of-place, and he's damn smart about it. Everything you see, in that cell-" Philip Broyles nodded to the slightly out-of-focus, black-and-white camera footage on the security monitor, "-is what Alexander- 'Walter Bishop'- has crafted to stay alive."

Charlie tried not to look impressed- he was not some back-woods hick town sheriff that could be distracted by pretty, shiny, big-city FBI agents, or their spook stories, and he sipped his coffee dismissively to outline this fact, "You make him sound like Charles Manson."

"No, Sherriff Francis, not in the least. To a certain point, Alexander is the least of our problems," Broyles said seriously, watching the screen rather intently himself, "He just seems to be the more clever of them. I won't lie when I say that he is amazing, in his efforts. He has never become disillusioned with his transparency, like many fugitives, thinking themselves so hidden that they settle down and try to forget their old lives. No- Walter never stops."

"You say he's not your worst problem What is your worst problem, Agent Broyles?" Charlie asked.

Broyles glanced at him, a hint of suspicion and paranoia showing for a few moments on his face, before it was hidden behind a mask of cold, "I'm afraid that's classified-"

"I don't give a damn about the classified crap. But the people of this town are my responsibility, and if you know something about anything that might bring them harm, it's my right to know, and my responsibility to deter that harm. Is there anything I should know about, Agent Broyles?"

Broyles smiled softly, issuing a sigh. For a few short moments, Charlie's blood pressure began to rise, as he angrily imagined the sigh as a small dismissal of his 'ignorant' demands. But he was slightly taken aback as Broyles continued, "There is another man we've been tracking for some time. His name is Peter Bishop."

"Peter Bishop?"

"Yes. He holds no biological connection with Alexander, I can assure you. But the reason Alexander has been running all this time has not been from the local government, it has been from him."

"Why?"

"Quite simply, because Peter Bishop is intent on killing Alexander. And he will kill anyone that strays between himself and his objective. And rather than following the bodies, we've found that the only way to capture Peter is getting to his target before he does."

"And then?"

"And then we wait."

xXx

He was playing with the chains of his ankle cuffs with his toes and singing to himself when they entered his cell. He preferred to sketch, when he was thinking, but that was a rare opportunity that did not always present itself, as most of his thinking was done on the run. For now, simple verse would do.

It was a young man, an agent he'd never seen before, but somehow seemed familiar, "Hello," Walter said with a small smile.

"Dinner," The agent said, seemingly unaffected by the sight before him. Walter sat on his knees in a slightly leaning position in the light, smooth cement slab that was the floor, chained with ankle chains that reached to his knees, and his arms were pulled around his back, each hand reaching the opposite elbow in an uncomfortably contorted position to support what appeared to be thick leather arm braces, fitted snugly together with long, steel pins that ran the entire length of his spine. He could not tilt his head to look up, finding the resistance of the condemning braces pressuring the base of his skull, and had resorted to only leaning and turning his head, to get a look at his visitor. There was no way for him to escape- he could barely move, for that matter.

"Goodie," Walter murmured pleasantly, watching the stainless steel tray. With the proper application of force on the tray at just the right place, he could separate the young man's jaw from the rest of his head, crushing- "and just what am I sampling, this fine evening? Perhaps if you would simply remove my Pins, I could-"

The agent shook his head, "No."

Walter frowned, looking hurt, "You could put me into standard cuffs, just for dinner-"

"No. Broyles told me all about you. You can dislocate your thumbs. He also says you can escape from a strait jacket. So no. I'm not taking the chance." the young man set down the tray, turning to lock the cell behind himself.

Walter sighed, "What's your name, son?"

"He said you were a talker, too."

"Am not," Walter said, offended, "I'm only trying to make conversation."

The agent smirked only slightly, so slightly that Walter wondered if he'd imagined it, "That's called being a talker, Mr. Bishop."

"It's _Dr_. Bishop, for the love," Walter grumbled.

"Your license of practice was revoked seventeen years ago, _Dr_. Bishop."

"If you're going to mock me, you can leave," Walter said.

The agent said nothing, only chuckling as he continued to lock up.

"But I can tell a bit about you, even if I don't have my glasses," Walter continued to muse. His wrists and hands were stinging as he continually ripped his flesh across the leather, using the blood as a lubricant against his restraints, "A strong lad, very smart. Even if you aren't an FBI agent."

The young man froze.

"That's the wrong shape, for the badge. I'm not that blind," Walter smiled painfully, "It's nice to see you again, Peter. So to speak. I trust that you didn't actually bring me anything to eat, did you?"

xXx


	9. Sine Qua Non

Chapt. Nine: _(Sine Qua Non)_

Peter could feel a molar crush under the force of his fist against Walter's jaw. The ankle chains rattled as the old man contracted, his face against the cold floor as he spat out blood, saliva, and bits of filling. After a few moments, he cleared his throat, shaking off the pain, "Bullet to the brain, boy. We agreed on that," he panted.

Peter took the opportunity the land a sound kick to Walter's side, causing a yelp and weak attempt at shirking away. A grin found Peter's face, a small, nearly silent chuckle of sadistic amusement emerging from his throat, "That doesn't mean I can't amuse myself beforehand," he said, kneeling to draw up his father's head roughly, looking him in the face.

"Peter-"

"The Pins used to remind me of praying. Did they ever look like that, to you? I remember sitting in them for hours, when I was a kid- this is probably isn't the same set, it's way too big. They haven't made many of them. Just ones for you and I, I think. But now…" Peter stood, drawing out the pistol tucked into the waistband of his stolen uniform slacks, "They remind me of the guillotine."

Walter could not look up, only staring down at the way that blood darkened and hardened around the scuff-marks from countless heels on the floor. He was struggling mutely with his restraints, the chains around his legs clicking with his efforts, his face tight with pain and concentration.

"Pay attention to me, Walter," Peter warned.

"I am, son."

"No, you're not. You're trying to get away again."

"I can't look at you when you address me, Peter, and I'm sorry, I know it's terribly rude," Walter strained to give him a sidelong glance, "And I fear that you may not be yourself, right now."

Peter considered breaking his nose, but settled on a pistol whip to the back of the skull. Walter issued another cry, reeling as his motions slowed with pain. Peter thought he looked like an overturned beetle, squirming. As he thought of this, he set his foot to the back of his father's drawn shoulder blades, grinding in his heel, thinking perhaps he could crush this bug. Walter growled helplessly, his shoulders twitching in a spasm of pain.

Enough of this. However pleasurable it was to see this man in pain, Peter wanted to end his own suffering much more than to prolong Walter's.

Peter removed his weight, stooping to grip Walter by the collar and pull him back upright, "Sit up," he commanded gruffly. Walter sat back on his knees, tilting to the side only slightly to look up at his son. Blood oozed slowly from the corner of his mouth and one of his nostrils. The bruises from their previous encounter paled in comparison to the dark, crimson lines.

"Are you going to kill me now, son?" Walter questioned with a smile.

Peter bared his teeth, pressing the barrel to the old man's forehead.

Walter sighed softly, shutting his eyes.

Peter's breath caught in his throat as there was the bright sound of metal striking cement, and a steel pin clattered on the floor behind Walter. Peter stepped back, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Oops," Walter grinned.

Peter felt the gun fly from his grip as Walter ripped his arms from the bloody leather sleeves, the second pin falling as he rocketed to his feet, seizing his son by the throat and slamming him backward, onto the floor. Sparks exploded in Peter's vision, his senses throbbing with raw pain as Walter drew him up by the collar again, slamming his head on the floor once more. Walter scrambled to seize the lunch tray, sitting on Peter's chest as he reeled momentarily, and Walter raised the flat piece of steel above his head, driving it down with all of his strength. Peter felt teeth forced down his throat, and gurgled blood loudly, as Walter slammed the tray again with both of his fists, issuing a cry.

Peter's leg gave a twitch as his jaw was forced loose of his head, and his throat was crushed. Walter pounded the tray again, crushing his spinal cord. Peter did not move, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Walter sat on Peter's abdomen for a few moments, trembling and panting. At last, he gave a curse, rolling off of him and beginning to work on the locks of his ankle chains, "I don't like doing this to you, Peter," he said, a note of bitter anxiousness in his voice, "but you simply won't listen to _reason_, in times like these. It seems the only time I can _talk_ with you is when you're…" Peter could only assume his father was looking over him, "like _this_, I suppose. And even then, I don't know if you're listening…but they shouldn't be able to correctly identify you, like this. It should give you some time to get clear of them… " the ankle chains gave a clatter as he doffed them onto the floor and got to his feet.

"I see you've averted the cameras somehow- very convenient, I shouldn't be detected, in my departure," Peter could feel him pawing at his clothes, seizing the keys of the cell, the extra few speed-loads in his belt, and the badge. "Oh, Peter," Walter sighed, sounding as if he were shaking his head, "I do hope you haven't gone and killed some poor Customs agent for this. At least make it FBI- the less of those morons, the better. Ah, well." he kept the badge.

Peter at last gave a twitch as Walter stooped to collect the discarded firearm, and return to unlocking the door. His bare feet were nearly silent as he returned to his son's listless form, stooping to smooth back his hair tenderly, "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered. There was a hesitation, in his touch, and the soft feel of lips graced Peter's forehead.

Peter reached new levels of fury, in his incapacitation, as Walter crept out of the cell, locking it behind himself and hurrying off down the hall.

xXx

It had been an odd, slightly creepy feeling, going through the things in Walter's room for his car keys. Astrid had only hoped that they hadn't been on him, when he'd been arrested, and hesitated when she had opened his black leather bag, shirking away from a collage of syringes. She'd exclaimed brightly when she had discovered the keys in the pocket of a pair of discarded slacks.

Astrid got down the steps of the hotel before she gave herself a chance to look at the CLOSED sign in the window, lest a sense of reason somehow drift into her head. She carried with her a large, brown-paper grocery bag of assorted requests from Walter's list, and her hands were quaking slightly, as she sifted through the old keys and an eight-ball keychain to find the Station wagon's door key.

She unlocked the door and glanced around the vacant parking lot, the sky a cold, steel-grey color of twilight, and she suddenly wished she were back in her kitchen, complaining about the humidity and smelling mac-n-cheese cooking. Astrid climbed into the car. The last scene she would remember of her kitchen was the letter she had written to whoever found it, under the pasta tongs she had purchased at a yard sale. The envelope would be soft, from how long she had kept it in her sock drawer.

Astrid wound the engine to life and ground the stick shift into drive, pulling out of the empty parking lot and onto the side street that let to the main drag. She glanced down at the fuel gauge and frowned- this tuna boat needed gas.

She pulled in under the flickering fluorescent bulbs of the corner gas station, parking the car and pulling the seat forward before she climbed out. Her steps were quick as she ventured past the advertisements that littered the propped-open glass door. Distantly, a bell chimed, "Forty on pump two," Astrid mumbled, placing the cash onto the counter.

"'You getting out of here?" someone asked as the cashier dialed up the till, and Astrid jumped in surprise.

"Yes," she replied.

A shapely blonde woman watched her with her hands in the pockets of her jeans, her thumb fiddling with the keys on her belt. "Just traveling through?" she asked with another smile. The artificial light accented her freckles. Astrid thought she was very pretty, and had an accomplished look about her, even if it seemed strained, at times.

"Yeah," Astrid lied.

"Me, too. My name's Olivia," she held out her hand, and Astrid shook it, muttering her own appellation, "Well, I mean, I'll probably be going tomorrow morning. It's a little late to be heading out, don't you think?"

"Yeah- I mean, no. I've… I've got somewhere to be, I'm in a hurry."

Olivia nodded agreeably, "I don't envy you. Do you know a good place to stay, in this town?"

"No," Astrid said. It was half-truth; the Lux sucked.

"Hmm. Where are you headed?"

"Los Angeles," Astrid answered, the first city she could think of emerging from her lips. She did not know what it was about Olivia that made her feel as if she were on the chopping block, and she struggled to shake the menacing feeling away, "What about you?"

"Dunno," Olivia sighed, "I kind of don't care, you know? So long as I'm not where everyone expects me to be, d'you know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I've taken up more than enough of your time. It was nice meeting you, Astrid," they shook hands again, and Astrid departed to her pump to take on her purchased petrol. Were all of the people outside of this town as coldly calculating as Olivia had been?

Well, it had been an interesting distraction, and Astrid soon found herself pulling into the back-street of the police station, the squat brick building seeming sound enough, and she swallowed.

And all at once, reason struck her; she should go back now- what was she even thinking?! She didn't have a plan, to get Walter out, and even if she had, was she expecting to go with him? To _where_? Was Charlie right- was she really that stupid? The man was wanted by the freaking _FBI_! He'd killed people! Who's to say he wouldn't simply kill her-

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an arm snaking through the open window, seizing her by the collar, and she gave a small scream, struggling away.

"What are doing in my car?!"

"_Walter_!" Astrid exclaimed, and he released her. She did not have the time to ask why his hands and face were bloody.

"I don't care, just scoot over! Move, I haven't got much time!"

"Don't scare me like that, you dill weed!" Astrid cried as Walter pulled open the door, pushing her across the bench seat to climb in.

"What did you do to my seat? Don't fiddle around with my seat!" Walter huffed, pulling down the seat lever and setting it back as he started the engine and turned to look out of the hopelessly cluttered back window to back out of the narrow drive.

"You're _welcome_," Astrid grumbled, crossing her arms across her front.

xXx


	10. SineChronic

Chapt. Ten: _(Sine-chronic)_

They had not gone far when Walter pulled the car over on the side of the road, and Astrid was suddenly afraid that Walter would tell her to get out. He surprised her as he turned and said, "I need you to punch me in the shoulder, miss. As hard as you can, please- I don't want to do this again."

"What?" Astrid questioned, bewildered, "Why?"

"My shoulder has been dislocated," he said seriously, and Astrid gave an exclamation of horror, and he shook his head, continuing, "I know what kind of a hook you've got, and I know you can do it. Please, quickly. Damage may be irreversible, if I go with it out of joint much longer."

"You're serious?!"

"I am that."

Astrid gaped at Walter in disbelief for a few moments, as he continued to stare out the window patiently, waiting for her strike to land, "O-okay," Astrid said at last, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as her hands shook, "Um, how do I do this…?"

"Try to spread out the force of the blow," Walter pulled up what appeared to be a rather ancient geometry book, placing it lightly over his unnaturally slouching shoulder, "the larger the surface of the connection, the better the chance it will go back into joint. Go on. Give it everything you've got."

"Will it-" Astrid paused, then frowned. Of course it would hurt., she was wasting time.

She hit the book so hard that they both issued a cry of pain. Walter contracted, his fingernails digging into the chipped rubber of the steering wheel as he hissed a stream of curses, and instinctively Astrid threw her arms around his neck in a hug, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Are you alright?!"

"Better, thanks," he answered with a wry smile. They sat looking at each other for a few moments, before Walter gently shrugged off her hold, grinding the ignition. "I see you got gas. Thank you. We'll need it."

"For what?" Astrid questioned, "Where are we going? Wait- you're letting me go with you?"

"Not for where we're _going_, silly. It's for the fire."

xXx

Olivia felt stupid, putzing around, doing _nothing _in a corner gas station for what had felt like hours, already. It would have been different, had there been a coffee machine around, but her luck was out. It appeared that this town was so removed, they did not even have regular traffic of truckers.

But, as far as she could tell, at least everyone appeared to still be in possession of their teeth.

And so, Olivia sat, cursing herself for any number of reasons. She didn't know what was going on, what she was doing, what Peter was doing. He'd only borrowed her badge and told her the wait there. Apparently, there wasn't even a hotel around… but Olivia doubted that whatever Peter was doing would make it easy to spend the night.

It only took so long to read the label on a can of deviled ham.

Astrid had been a change of pace, to say the least. Young. She seemed scared, scared of the world. But behind the exhilarated look of fear she had had, Olivia was certain she had seen a brilliance that looked like nothing else, in this town.

Olivia was somehow reminded of herself, and the way she used to be. She wondered if she would ever see Astrid again, and if she and Olivia would be just alike. Olivia hoped not.

The bell sounded, somewhere above the cash register, and Olivia looked up from reading over a month-old Highway magazine as someone entered the basking glow of the harsh, artificial lighting. Olivia carefully watched the rather round sheriff's deputy over a rack of dusty sunglasses, as he called out to the clerk, "Ernie!"

Ernie, a gent in a tall truckers cap that sat behind the counter and seemed entirely content on glaring at Olivia when she strayed too close, looked up from his newspaper, "What?" he snapped.

"Lemme get a cup of coffee. Charlie called me in, apparently there's been some sort of attack, down at the station," the pudgy deputy rubbed the tip of his small, red nose in an attempt to warm it. Olivia's thought immediately turned to Peter, and she felt her stomach seize with dread, knowing what he had done even before the deputy had a chance to explain.

"Oh? What happened?" Ernie grudgingly got up from his seat, grumbling as he shuffled into the back, feeling his effort was a fair trade for a bit of the goings-on. Olivia only frowned, remembering that she had offered to buy a cup of coffee, and he had denied having any.

"Dunno. First the FBI show up this morning, and Charlie has us clear out. Then some poor bastard gets jumped, and we get called back in. I guess this guy is pretty bad- they sent the agent to the hospital, but they don't think he'll make it."

"They setting up road blocks to get who did it?"

"Nah. Charlie says we're not even allowed to put it out on the radio- says it's restricted, something like that. I don't know how we're supposed to catch the sunnovabitch who did it, if we don't even know what he looks like…"

"Or if he's a he," Ernie said lowly, taking a suspicious glance back at Olivia.

The deputy looked back at her, and Olivia waved. _Yeah, you dumb bastards, as if I'd stick around in this place after killing someone. I'm thinking of killing _myself_, you two are so boring._

"Evening, ma'am," the deputy said.

"The man who was attacked, who was he?" Olivia asked, emerging from the isle. Ernie returned to glaring at her, and she ignored him.

"Dunno," the deputy answered.

"What's it to you?" Ernie questioned sharply.

"Olivia Dunham, US Customs," Olivia said, flashing her sidearm rather than her missing badge, "I'm just concerned. I had a partner, he was once killed…" Olivia did not finish her statement.

"Well, I guess he was almost killed with a lunch tray," the deputy continued, seeming eager to get into the grisly details.

"The prisoner?"

The deputy blinked, "No. The officer taking him his dinner. The prisoner escaped."

Olivia felt her face drain of color, and swallowed back her dread, clearing her throat to calmly question, "What hospital did you say they were taking the officer to?"

xXx

"What are you doing to my hotel?!"

Walter looked guilty, as he attempted to hide the majority of the red plastic jerri can and yellowed siphoning hose behind his back, "Cleaning…?" he answered slowly, with a labored grin.

"Walter, that doesn't look like a bottle of Febreeze," Astrid frowned. He inched around her, and jogged up the stairs. She followed after him, "tell me what you're doing!"

"Miss, if it isn't already quite apparent, I am on the run," Walter said, passing the other room doors without heed, "I have very little time, and as you've decided to help me, neither do you. Any evidence I leave behind has the potential for deadly consequence. They know I was here, but I can't give them any indication of where I'm going," He fiddled the lock of the door open with his fingertips and let swing it open.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing," Astrid said.

"We're going to burn it down," Walter smirked darkly as he hefted up the gas can, heading inside, "It should provide a proper deterrent, and a wicked good distraction while we slip away."

Astrid stood in the doorway, gaping openly, "Walter, you can't be…" the harsh smell of gasoline hit her nostrils, "…serious…"

"It should only be a small structure fire, if I control it properly," Walter insisted, as he emerged from within the closet, dumping small douses of liquid on the walls and rug, "providing I can set up proper breaks and such- woah!" he exclaimed as Astrid pulled the jerri can from his hands, "Hey, what are you doing?!"

"This is my damn hotel!" Astrid said, throwing bouts of gasoline onto the walls and across the carpet, "If anyone gets to burn this hell-hole to the ground, it's me!" she set to drenching the mattress and pillows with the harsh-smelling petroleum.

"You're far more game for this than I had previously anticipated…" Walter murmured, flushing slightly. Astrid responded by kicking over the television to shatter on the floor. She topped it with more gasoline, and flung the can into the bathroom with a cry, shattering the mirror.

"Give me the damn matches," she demanded gruffly, blowing a curl from her eyes.

Walter swallowed, holding them out to her, "Can't we pillage the bath soaps, first…?" he asked weakly.

Astrid struck the match, letting it flare up in her fingertips. She took a deep breath of gasoline fumes and carpet freshener, and bared her teeth, "Fuck Luciano. Fuck this town. I'm _done_." and she cast the little flame onto the sheets, as they immediately caught fire. Thick, fuming black smoke billowed from the red, greasy flames, and Walter murmured something about being glad he'd slept in the closet as Astrid set her hands on her hips, a dark smile of satisfaction on her lips.

"As beautiful as your soliloquy has been, I somehow think we should get around to running and shouting 'fire' at the top of our lungs, shouldn't we?" Walter mused, and Astrid's eyes widened.

"Omigawd, I forgot about the other patrons!" she cried, covering her mouth with her hands.

Walter laughed, grabbing her by the wrist, "Come on!" and they sprinted from the structure, Walter occasionally stumbling over his own feet as red flames and black smoke began to curl out of the windows and around the roof. Confused, screaming patrons began to pour from their rooms as Astrid and Walter scrambled into the Vista Cruiser, revving the engine and slamming the car into reverse as the air began to grow hot. The tires screeched as they rocketed from the parking lot, the mass of unnamable junk in the back rattling loudly.

Almost as loudly as they were laughing.

xXx


	11. Caution Sine

Chapt. Eleven: _(Caution Sine) _

The beep of a respirator nagged him awake, and the slow, twisting throb of the misplaced IV in his arm. Peter opened his eyes open a slit to see an EMT leaning over him, looking sick and shaken. He was leaning on his IV hose.

_This mother fucker's gonna get my metal_, Peter glared. _Stupid newbies. What's the matter? Never seen blood before, jackass? Why don't you take the extra step and become a chiropractor?_

Something called the young man away, removing the bruising pressure of the IV, and the other sounds of the ambulance came into focus to Peter's ears. It took him a few moments to register, his jaw grinding painfully as he barred his teeth, biting it back into place. His dry tongue worked against the roof of his mouth a he swallowed back the bits of teeth and grains of dried blood, feeling slightly ill. He coughed into the oxygen mask strapped over his face, and raised a hand to pull it away and wheeze into the charged air.

To his side lay the metal tray, blood and flecks of flesh from his mouth still visible. He guessed he should consider himself lucky, that Walter had disfigured him enough to be unrecognizable. Peter glared, his body surging with fiery anger. Walter.

Peter sat up in the gurney, squinting in the flashes of the emergency lights. The EMT appeared to have vacated the parked ambulance, probably off to botch another attempt at proper medical care. Peter set to pulling off the wires on his chest and the tubes from his arms. He worked his way loose of the gurney straps, climbing out of the back of the ambulance.

He emerged to disorganized chaos, and was quick to straiten his stolen uniform, rubbing at the scabs at the sides of his mouth. If he played himself just right, they wouldn't even know he was gone.

The rage of defeat still smoldered beneath Peter's calm visage as he slipped between the rushing law enforcement, severely tempted to strike out at them for being in his way. But slowly, carefully, he managed to disappear into the shadows and away from the jail.

His nostrils flared as he smelled fire.

Headlights suddenly blinded him, and Peter immediately searched for a route of escape, before her heard someone emerge from the car, "Peter?!" Olivia called.

He shaded his eyes and blinked at her with a smile, "Hey."

"Peter, I heard about what happened in there," she came forward with his coat, draping it over his shoulders, "they said you were almost killed…"

"They over exaggerated," Peter assured her, as she lead him back to the jeep, and they climbed inside. He leaned his head back against the seat, "but he got away. God damn it, he got away."

"It's okay, Peter. As long as you're alright." Olivia ground the shifter, and they drove away from the lights, "You'll get him," she said at last.

Peter rested his forehead against the window, letting out a sigh, "I don't even know where he's going. I doubt he's anywhere near here, at this point- there is that glow coming from?" Peter pointed to the faint glow, over the buildings.

Olivia looked over at him, "What?"

"Here! Turn here!" Peter demanded.

They arrived on a scene of panic, at the patrons of what appeared to be a hotel were scattering away from the burning structure, and Peter emerged form the jepp, cursing, "Son of a bitch! He's covered his tracks! There's no telling which direction he's going!"

Olivia frowned at the flames and greasy smoke, "That's strange. The girl I met at the gas stop said that there was no place to stay, in this town."

Peter glanced up at her, "What did you say?"

"I met a girl in the gas stop and asked her. She said no, that she was just traveling through. And I guess now that technically, there isn't..."

"He's traveling with her," Peter said, smiling, "he probably just recruited her, stupid bastard. He wasn't careful enough, this time…"

"What do you mean?" Olivia questioned.

"The girl, what did she look like? What was she driving?" Peter passed Olivia to climb into the driver seat, and she had to scramble to get into the passengers' side, "How would she know about a hotel, if she's not from here? If she lied about this hotel, it means she knows he stayed here."

"Her name was Astrid. She was driving an old station wagon," Olivia said, slightly perplexed at his reasoning, "she was filling the tank."

"They're headed out of town," Peter smiled darkly.

xXx

"Walter?"

Walter Bishop looked up from his slouched position over his paperwork, rubbing his eyes as he squinted in the dim of the basement laboratory. He brightened as he spotted her in the blue glow of the blinking equipment, "Oh, Nina. Hello."

He didn't know if it was her voice that told him it was her smiling, "You're getting more and more creepy, Walter. Have you ever heard of proper lighting?"

Walter smiled in return, sitting back in his chair with a sigh and brushing his fingers back through his hair, "I like the dark. It helps me concentrate. But I'm sure you didn't come all the way down here to lecture me on my choice of mood lighting."

Nina shook her head slightly with a smile, "I didn't." They were silent for a few moments, and at last Walter got to his feet, brushing the wrinkles from the front of his jeans.

"You want to see him," he said.

"I do," Nina admitted.

Walter pushed his chair in, grabbing up the clipboard and his lab coat, come along, then."

It was something like a maze, passing tall stacks of abandoned equipment, some covered with dusty white sheets, others left to the air. The effect was, as Nina had said, creepy. As he lead her deeper into the lab, it grew darker, as most of the high windows had been taped over with duct tape. Walter wasn't the only one that liked the dark.

They came at last to a steel door, "He might be sleeping," Walter said, hesitant, "But I doubt it." he sighed, and slid aside the cover to the small porthole into the room. Nina watched as Walter raised his knuckles to tap on the glass.

The sound, however small it seemed, all but echoed through the small cell, and he twitched on the floor. Another knock. Moaning, he raised his head for the cement, training his blurred sights on the darkened glass across the cell. He growled lowly, barring his teeth for a few moments in warning. He settled down again.

Walter frowned with worry and Nina looked sad. Walter leaned forward, touching the button beside the com, "William?"

"My name isn't William."

"William, it's me," Nina blurted before Walter could speak, "it's Nina. How are you?"

"My name isn't William," he repeated.

"William-"

"My name isn't William," he sat up to watch them through the door, his hair disheveled and eyes reddened, "it isn't. Don't call me that. _Stop _calling me that."

Walter released the com button, "He's having trouble with the substitute program. He keeps rejecting it. He keeps insisting-"

"My name is doctor Walter Bishop," he stated at last.

Nina watched Walter, wide-eyed, as he looked sad, "He thinks…?" she questioned, taken aback, and Walter nodded. She raised her hands to her mouth, "Oh, god."

"His delusions have swung to the abstract. I've been working with him when I can, but he gets violent, when I call him William."

"I want to help," Nina said.

Walter shook his head, "Nina, if he's rejecting the substitute program, there's no way he could handle-"

"I'm his User!" Nina snapped, "I can't leave him like this, William. And if he won't accept September's keywords, I may be the only one that can help him."

Walter looked unsure, but faltered to her glare at last, "Alright. Go ahead."

"William," Nina said softly, leaning toward the speaker.

"MY NAME ISN'T WILLIAM!" He wailed, covering his face in his hands and letting out a sob, "Just go away, go away!"

"You're sick, William. You've been sick for a long time. We're only here to help you, and we can only help you if you let us help you. Do you understand me?" he continued to weep in his hands, and Nina released the button. "I have to go inside," she said.

"No. Absolutely not. He's not right, Nina; he's been lain open, susceptible to any of the keywords, and not just from you-"

"Open the damn door, Walter!" Nina snapped.

Obligingly, he hauled over the bolt, slamming it out of the way. He cranked open the lock, pulling open the heavy door, and Nina stepped across the threshold. She could not let him see her pity, and only watched his sobbing, rocking form cooly.

"William, get up," she said.

"No. No. I killed her- I've _killed _people-!"

"Get up, _if you would._"

Still weeping, he crawled to his feet, tugging at his hair.

"Good, that's good. Now, you said your name was?"

"Please don't do this to me! Don't take it away! Don't take me away-!"

"Tell me your name, _if you would_," Nina said quietly.

He rubbed his eyes with his fists, smearing away the tears, "It's Walter. Walter Bishop." he looked up at her, "Nina, _please_…"

"_Cold yellow_," Nina murmured.

He spasmed with pain, his knees sliding out from under him as he reeled, clutching his skull with a cry of pain. He kicked from his dropped position on the floor, "Nina!" he cried at last.

She crossed the cell to watch over him, "I just told your brain to suffocate itself. I don't like doing this to you, William. Now, what is your name?"

"Walter… Bishop…"

"_Truant memory_."

He wailed in pain again, writhing and coughing with sobs.

"What is your name?!"

"WALTER BISHOP!"

"_Beautiful Anarchy_."

xXx

Astrid awoke as the engine shut off. She wondered, for a few moments, where she was, slowly coming to grasp the memories of the events of the day. Her actions. Her decisions.

She sat up from dozing off against the door, looking over at Walter, "What's up?" she questioned, rubbing the fog from her eyes with her fingertips.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep," Walter answered gruffly, "we'll be back on the road soon enough."

"I could drive for a while, if you're tired."

"No."

"…Where are we going, even?"

"I don't know."

Astrid was silent for a few moments, her eyes adjusting to the dark, "Jeez- Walter, you're bleeding," she searched around in the cluttered floorboard in search of a napkin, and leaned across the bench seat, dabbing at his bloody nose.

"It happens," he answered. She could not see his eyes behind the glare of his glasses, in the dim dusk of pre-dawn, "when I remember something."

"What?" Astrid questioned, and he took the napkin from her, holding it to his nostrils, "remember what?"

"I really couldn't tell you," he admitted, "but it-" he suddenly kicked open the door to stumble out, onto the highway gravel and throw up, "...does that," he completed weakly.

"Walter, are you sick?" Astrid questioned, getting out of the car to approach him, her brows drawn in concern.

Walter wiped his lips on the napkin shakily, sitting back on the hood of the car to take a few deep breaths. He addressed her at last, "Miss, the truth is, I appear to have amnesia."

"Amnesia? Like… forgetting everything?" and suddenly, some of the tumblers fell into place, and Astrid began to understand why Walter acted so strangely- the swings in mood, his forgetfulness. Perhaps even the reason she felt no threat from him.

He smiled wryly, agreeing, "Nearly everything. But it comes back to me, sometimes. Glimpses. Thoughts. Feelings. But not enough… and I can never tell when they'll hit me, or how much I'll remember. Sometimes I can ease it with… but I must apologize, as it makes me sick in a most unsightly way…"

"How much do you remember?" Astrid asked.

Walter shrugged, "I don't know. And what I do remember, sometimes… it doesn't feel like it's mine. Does that make any sense?"

"Do you know why the FBI wants you?" Astrid questioned.

He was silent for a few moments, "No," he answered at last, and turned to look at her evenly, his eyes dark behind the glare of his lenses, "miss, I mean this in the most serious possible way- it would probably be in your best interest to get as far away from me as you possibly can."

xXx


End file.
